Unwilling Guest
by Windborn
Summary: When Cassandra returns to The Hanged man after a long day of interrogation and failure, all she wants is a good long rest. What she finds instead is infuriating...and not altogether unpleasant.


**Unwilling Guest**

Cassandra had been in less hospitable cities than Kirkwall, but none with quite such an off-putting combination of corruption, poverty, and general neglect. She wanted to blame its miserable state on the chaos three years ago, and the disappearance of the Champion.

But by most accounts, it was always like this. Hawke just kept it from spiraling entirely out of control. As a Templar, Knight-Commander Cullen could only do so much. Tensions between Templars and mages had torn the city apart; now, many of its citizens wanted nothing to do with either.

Soon. Very soon, she would be able to return to Orlais. She'd found the dwarf, but somewhere in his own travels he'd lost contact with the Champion. With Divine Justinia's Conclave fast approaching, it seemed the Inquisition would have to do without, but Cassandra would wait for word from the Divine before heading home. At least passing the intervening time in Kirkwall should give her time to talk Cullen into joining them. She hoped.

The Inquisition had rented an entire inn in Lowtown. The Hanged Man, it was called. Odd name. Ominous. Fitting, in this wretched city. Cassandra made her way along narrow streets, dimly lit by a sparse scattering of lanterns that filled the air with oily, fishy smoke, grateful for Leliana's precise directions. In short order, they brought her to the Lowtown Market; from there, she knew the way well enough. Soon, the tavern's unsettling placard swayed into view.

Life in suspension. All of Thedas could empathize.

Two Inquisition soldiers flanked the front door, at ease until they noticed her approach and snapped to rigid attention. She waved them down as she gratefully stepped out of the Kirkwall night.

Not that The Hanged Man's interior was much of an improvement, but at least it could afford candles and lantern oil that didn't reek of fish. The stale beer had probably absorbed into the floorboards. A handful of off-duty soldiers sat in ones and twos about the common room, engaged in quiet conversation or contemplating tankards of ale and plates overflowing with simple fare. One, on duty, stood guard at the bottom of the stairs. The Inquisition was taking no chances with malcontents-or its unwilling guest.

Having already eaten with the Templars at the Gallows, Cassandra nodded a mute greeting to her comrades and headed for the stairs. She avoided the accusatory glare of a young mage who had only recently joined them and still seemed to think the Seeker would eat her alive if she dropped her guard.

No Varric.

"Where is our dwarf?" she asked the woman guarding the stairs.

The guard chuckled, jerking her chin toward the second floor. "Master Tethras took himself up to bed. Said he'd had enough of dour militants for one evening." Her grin turned conspiratorial. "More likely he'd lost more coin to our Renner than he could bear. The only sour face was his own! Don't worry," she added, even as Cassandra remembered seeing the elf in question out front, "they left off well before Renner's shift. Not a one of us is fool enough to let him do _that_ again."

"I'm glad someone learned from the incident."

"Pity it wasn't Renner. Will you be turning in for the night, Seeker?"

"Yes. Do not hesitate to wake me if anything happens."

"We'll not exceed our authority," she replied, saluting. "But we won't wake you for trifles, either. You don't get enough rest as it is."

Before Cassandra could protest, she found herself shooed up the stairs. Not everyone found her unbearably intimidating. She had yet to decide if that annoyed or pleased her, since it usually manifested as informal levity.

Early that morning, Leliana had claimed the best rooms for the both of them. Cassandra wouldn't have cared, but Leliana insisted it would be good to maintain such visible signs of their authority. Though Cassandra understood what she was getting at, she also suspected the Bard was simply glad to have an excuse to enjoy some privacy and what little comfort such a place could offer.

Tired as Cassandra was, she was grateful to know she wouldn't be disturbed.

She eased the door open, closed it softly behind her, and lit a candle on the table before going to work on the buckles of her breastplate. One by one, the pieces of armor came off, to be abandoned in a trail around the room. She'd regret it in the morning, when she had to pick it all up again. More, should anyone come in and see the mess.

It was with great relief she collected her candle and headed for the bedroom. A small shelf just inside the doorway took the candlestick, and she turned to strip off the rest of her clothes and fall into bed.

The bed wasn't empty.

Cassandra paused, arms crossed over her stomach, grasping the hem of her shirt, staring in utter bafflement at the unexpected occupant. Candlelight threw the tangled blankets into deep wells of shadow, warmed to summer-gold the firm swell of buttock peeking from beneath them. Her shadow fell across the muscular back - surprisingly smooth, given the hair on his chest - and she shifted out of the light, only vaguely aware of choosing to see more clearly.

Varric's usually-neat hair frothed across the pillow and curled against his broad shoulders. He slept with his arms tucked beneath the pillow, his biceps startling in their width, free of his elaborate merchant's garb. His crossbow must have been heavier than it looked. And where had he left it that she hadn't noticed?

He stirred as the light flickered over his face. In sleep, he almost looked guileless. Not innocent. Far from innocent, completely at ease, in her bed, in naught but his skin. Still . . . he was reasonably handsome, when he wasn't lying through that calculating smile.

Eyes clenched against the light as he finally roused, then blinked, blearily, trying to focus. Confusion resolved into incredulity as he looked her up and down. "Why, Seeker! Stripping? For me? I must still be dreaming."

Glancing down, Cassandra realized she still held the hem of her shirt. Though not usually given to showing embarrassment, she could feel cheeks grow warm, and was momentarily grateful her face was in shadow. She planted her hands on her hips. "I've no interest in your dreams, Varric."

"No? It was fascinating. Although I'm not sure Qunari brothels actually exist -"

" _Varric._ Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?"

At that, he finally raised his head, brows curling together in bewilderment so genuine she was sure her first guess, that this was some elaborate jest, was wrong. "Your bed? I was about to ask why you were undressing in my room."

"What are you talking about? I brought my things up this morning, long before the guards escorted you here." She gestured to a satchel, still lying, undisturbed, beneath the room's small window. She'd hardly moved in, perhaps, but he could at least have _looked_. Or asked.

Exasperation sharpened Varric's sigh, a hint of real temper he hadn't shown during her interrogation.

If it was the disrupted sleep that annoyed him, she could relate.

Varric rolled onto his side, apparently unconcerned for his . . . privacy, and propped his head on his fist.

Cassandra stared fixedly at his face. With scenes from his books playing out in her head, she wasn't prepared to see quite so much of their creator. Her breath came fast, and she struggled to pay attention to his words, and not the soft hair curling down his chest toward -

"Listen, Seeker -"

Thank the Maker he didn't say, "look." She would.

"- I lived in these rooms for the better part of a decade. When I'm in Kirkwall, the innkeeper makes sure it's cleared out and ready for me. Good customer service."

How could a man capable of crafting wondrously insightful and heartfelt works of literature be such a -

"So, if you'll pardon me, I'm going back to sleep." He turned away from her then, leaving her to present any further argument to his back. And a narrow strip of backside and thigh, where the blanket didn't quite meet the bed. Tantalizingly luminous in the half-light, and -

\- and she'd read far too many of his books if she was using _his_ words to describe him.

"The Inquisition is paying for this stay, Varric. You do not get to claim it as 'home' when you've been haring about Antiva and Tevinter and haven't set foot in the place for Maker-only-knows how long."

"If only the Maker knows," he said into his pillow, "how do you know I haven't?"

"Leliana's people have been following you since Tevinter, and that's beside the point."

"You brought it up."

An inarticulate growl of frustration slipped from her throat. Before the temptation to strangle him overwhelmed her, which the Divine would not appreciate, she paced the length of the room and back, putting him out of reach, at least for a moment. "You are insufferable!"

"Oh, good, at least the feeling is mutual."

For everything, a retort! The wit she envied in his writing was damned trying in person. Once more, she considered that line of uncovered flesh.

The idea that struck her chased away all her frustration.

But despite their stature, dwarves weren't _small_. She would only get one chance.

"The _point_ , Varric, is that, involuntary or not, you are a guest of the Inquisition, and I will not have a pampered local celebrity dictating where I may sleep!" Cassandra took hold of the blanket covering the mattress, braced herself, and _yanked_.

He realized her intent a heartbeat too late save himself. He tried, but wound up off-balance. His wide-eyed, horrified face came around twice before he disappeared over the side of the bed with an indignant yelp.

She didn't get such a good look at other things, just enough to decide dwarves were proportionally larger than she would have expected.

While he sat on the floor, staring as though he'd never seen her before, she tossed the blanket over him and fetched a fresh one from the chest behind her. She flung herself onto the bed before he could reclaim it, or even get his feet under him.

"Good night, Varric." Shutting her eyes tightly, she listened hard for any impending retaliation.

None came. Grumbling obscenities, the dwarf gathered his blankets and rounded the foot of the bed, where he traded the blankets for his crossbow, and presumably, his clothes. When his footsteps moved past her, Cassandra cracked an eyelid for one last peek at his retreating backside. To her surprise, he'd stopped.

"Andraste's tits, Seeker, what are you? The lead in some tawdry romance, scattering her clothes in her haste to undress for her lover in the next room?" He was the last person she would have wanted to see her disarray.

And she'd forgotten about it. "Ugh!" She snatched the pillow from under her head and flung it at him, all interest in his appealing nakedness vanishing in a wave of dismay. "Get out!"


End file.
